


the second hand unwinds

by spookyfoot



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, M/M, happy birthday vitya!, somehow both mutual pining and established relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 12:34:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13146813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyfoot/pseuds/spookyfoot
Summary: He’s seen that look on Yuuri’s face before: amidst a flood of fluorescent lights Sochi, Yuuri’s body wrapped around a pole the way Victor wanted it entangled with his own; in the close roaring silence of a converted banquet hall in Hasetsu, hovering above Victor’s sweat-slick body before ducking down for another kiss; in the soft spill of morning sun on the silk sheets of their bed in St. Petersburg as Victor traced a line of kisses down Yuuri’s chest to his navel and Yuuri’s eyes had fluttered open warm and inviting, urging Victor lower and—“How?”“Time travel!” Victor chirps, still a little lost in remembering the comforting weight of his Yuuri’s thighs pressed against his shoulders, one on either side of his head.“…I’m still confused.”“I’m not sure I understand how it worked either but—”“Why now?”Because you’re beautiful always, and you told me about Chris, and there was that photographer last week, and then too many candles on my birthday cake, and would the you of then love the me of now,Victor thinks, but does not say.





	the second hand unwinds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alykapedia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alykapedia/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY VICTOR.

Victor wakes up, crumpled on the foyer floor of an unfamiliar hotel room, eleven years in the past, and utterly disoriented. He can hear his own _slightly_ atonal singing echoing from the shower. Which means…

Victor scrambles to his feet and then over to the side of the bed. There’s a very familiar—far less worn—jacket strewn across the comforter, a lanyard tangled in the folds. Victor picks it up and his own face beams out at him from under a sheet of long silver hair.

_Skate America 2013_

In a month, Victor’s hair will be short, shorn like it’s just another trick up his sleeve. He wonders, if everything goes according to plan, if Yuuri will finally get to live his half-awake muttered fantasy of pulling it when Victor goes down on him.

Of course, that all depends on the _other_ Victor.

His eyes land on the hotel stationary. A letter. Perfect. And just a little romantic. He hunches down next to the desk and pulls the cap off the cheap, hotel branded ballpoint pen. It hovers in the air, frozen.

_This would be a lot easier if I were writing to Yuuri instead of myself._

_Dear_ _Victor,_

That feels too formal.

_Dear Vitya,_

_I can only hope you’ll believe this letter when you open it…_

Victor keeps writing, pen keeping time to his own voice singing “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

_Almost. Done._

Victor scribbles his own signature, somewhat refined from what he remembers it being at age twenty three, but recognizably his.

 _Hopefully this works._ And if it doesn’t, he’s got the in person option.

Plus _,_ considering that Victor has four times the follicular mass to deal with, Victor’s still got some time to figure out how he wants to play this.

The bathroom door creaks open releasing a burst of steam.

_Okay, maybe not._

“What the—who the fuck are you?” the other Victor sputters, hair clumped together in damp ribbons that snake down his back. He’s naked. Victor thinks Yuuri might be right about him “having something for meeting people with his dick out,” but this really isn’t the time to examine that detail further.

“I’m hurt, we don’t look _that_ different in ten years,” Victor says. The laminated rink pass is still clenched between his thumb and index fingers. It’s far too late to score a ticket. If Yuuri isn't at Detroit Skating Club, well...then Victor has a back-up plan. 

_“We?”_

“Who else would I be?” Victor tilts his head and moves his hands towards his hips. He can _probably_ slip the pass in his pocket without—

“Put that back.”

He doesn’t.

“Sorry. Can’t. I have someone I—we—have to meet. You’ll thank me later.”

“Well I’m calling security _now_ , there won’t be any later.”

“Are you always so uncooperative? Can you just work with me?” Had he always been like this? Was Yakov right? _Was Victor turning into Yakov?_

“Why would I work with someone who just broke into my hotel room?”

“Because you’ll thank yourself later. And I would know, because I’m you—later—and I can _assure_ you of my undying gratitude.”

All Victor’s assured of is a door slamming in his face.

 _Well, that could have gone better,_ Victor thinks. He slides the pass out of his pocket. _It also could have gone worse._

Now, to find his current, and also future, husband.

 

_________________________________________________________

 

The last time Victor was in Detroit was only a few months ago. Ten years in the future.

If he thinks about it too hard, he’s going to get a headache. A worse headache.

Yuuri had given him a tour of Detroit Skating Club—which Victor, half smug, half furious, noted was not quite as nice as Yubileyny. A few of Yuuri’s former rink mates tittered at their arrival—half of whom had stayed in Detroit for one reason or another post-graduation, half of whom had, apparently, heard stories about Yuuri’s time training in Detroit.

Yuuri had looked at Victor and rolled his eyes before tucking an errant strand of hair behind Victor’s ear. Victor, recognizing it as part possessiveness, part tactile re-assurance, leaned into Yuuri’s touch before turning his head to press a kiss into the center of Yuuri’s palm. Even as the reigning World Champion, Yuuri still struggled to understand that the whispers were due to him than more than Victor.

They’d stayed at a different hotel then, one closer to the waterfront. Victor’s navigating a little bit blindly.

That’s when he runs into Chris.

“Vitya you—“ Chris’ mouth drops open in an unattractive expression of surprise. Usually when Chris leaves his mouth open, it’s entirely intentional. “You’re not Victor,” Chris says. He squints, “or…are you?”

_________________________________________________________

 

“I’m sorry you _what?_ ”

“Keep your voice down. _Please_.”

 _“…_ You travelled back in time to sleep with your future husband. Yuuri Katsuki. Who, unless you have some sort of marriage of convenience deal going on, presumably, has sex with you already.”

“Don’t say it like that. You’re making it sound dumb instead of romantic!”

“Why not both?”

"You may have tapped that first, but I get to tap that forever," Victor mutters to himself.

“I tapped that?” Chris says, eyes alight with glee.

“He’s going to be my husband so _hand off_ ,” Victor says, pausing before he adds, “unless you have his permission.”

“And if I do?”

Victor glares, “ _if_ is a dangerous word,” he says, unconsciously running a hand along his hairline. It feels thinner than it did, just hours earlier.

Chris knows him too well, because he just smiles, and walks over to the minibar. “Oh Vitya. Come on, let’s have some wine and you can tell me about the honeymoon that hasn't happened yet from my perspective.”

_________________________________________________________

 

Detroit Skating Club is, somehow, a little dingier that Victor remembers. Maybe it’s the grey haze of sky stretching overhead, maybe it’s the fact that Detroit seems a little worse without Yuuri by his side. Then again, most places would suffer the same fate for the same reason.

It’s late, and the ice is technically closed to the public. But Victor’s never been one to let a little detail like official operating hours stop him from getting want he wants. No—what he needs.

And he knows Yuuri has a key.

It turns out that Victor doesn’t need to do anything besides “pretend he’s giving an interview” and “be Russian.” He bamboozles the security guard into letting him slip by with a mishmash of unrelated physical therapy terms, winks, and not at all subtle insinuations that he has mafia connection. He lets his accent roll off his tongue like he hasn’t spoken English in six months. 

The guard recommends an Italian restaurant on Michigan Avenue, before letting him by. Victor plans on avoiding it all costs. With one last cellophane smile, he slides into the maze of hallways and makes his way towards the ice.

One of the doors is partially ajar and the cool rink lighting spills into the hallway. Victor can hear the familiar scrape of blades against the ice. They cut out for a moment—airborne—before resuming with a resounding _crack_ . Victor frowns. Yuuri shouldn’t be practicing jumps alone this late. Technically, he’s not Yuuri’s coach _yet_ or _anymore_ but the frown still sits heavy on his face. He slips through the doors, welcomed by a rush of cool air off the surface of the ice.

On the ice, Yuuri skates backwards, gliding towards Victor. His shoulders are bunched up around his ears but his legs are loose, exploratory. As though they’ve gotten longer and he’s not quite sure how to compensate yet. Victor remembers the late night conversation, Yuuri’s head resting against his chest, the whispered words against his collarbone about the late growth spurt that had delayed Yuuri’s senior debut. Or at least contributed.

But there’s the familiar sway of his hips and the graceful line of his hands, extended as though he’s at the barre and expects Minako to pop up behind him at any moment with reprimands the moment a finger fidgets out of place.

Victor had meant to speak. To let Yuuri know he was here—even if Yuuri probably wouldn’t know or believe him. But instead he crowds closer to the side of the rink and leans against the boards, enthralled.

Of course it all goes to shit when Yuuri breaks into a modified step sequence from Victor’s 2013 short program and Victor can’t contain his delighted applause. He's a little tipsy and Yuuri is beautiful. He can't help it. 

Yuuri falls flat on his ass.

Victor runs out onto the ice in street shoes.

“Yuuri? Darling?” _God he looks so young._

Yuuri takes one look at him and squeals, skates flashing as he scoots away.

Victor’s a little concerned about Yuuri’s hips but most mostly he can’t help thinking: _so cute._

 

_________________________________________________________

 

Yuuri’s just made a _complete and utter fool_ of himself in front of someone who has to be Victor Nikiforov’s cousin. Or a very good impersonator. If it’s the latter, Yuuri can’t help wondering where he was when Golden Skate ran that terrible contest and Yuuri has systematically—but _politely—_ ripped all of the entrants to shreds. Under his online pseudonym. Obviously.

The next few minutes are a blur. Almost-Definitely-Not-Victor-Nikiforov laces his fingers with Yuuri’s and pulls him to the rink exit. He lets Yuuri use him for balance when he slips on his skate guards. His hand hovers over the small of Yuuri’s back as though magnetized, and honing in on a familiar target.

He smells so good. Nothing like Yuuri imagined during all his shameful viewings of Victor’s cologne advertisements. He smells better.

In the locker room, Not Victor bends down, and efficiently unlaces Yuuri’s skates.

Once Yuuri mentally gets past the fact that someone who looks _just_ like and older Victor Nikiforov is literally on his knees for him, he makes the grave mistake of opening his mouth.

“Who—I—why—I—what? Are you?”

Not Victor is just as kind as Yuuri’s always imagined he’d be. He smiles, bright but soft, curling at the edges like he’s wrapping it around Yuuri like a blanket. And like Yuuri didn’t just accidentally ask him to contemplate the existential reality of his existence.

“I’m Victor Nikiforov—’s cousin. Victor Nikiforov’s cousin.”

Yuuri frowns, Victor’s never mentioned a cousin in interviews. Not Victor wilts. He shakes his head, and breathes deep.

“That’s a lie. I’m Victor Nikiforov.”

Somehow that feels true, even though it makes far less sense.

Maybe Actually Victor is still crouched at Yuuri’s feet, but he places his hand just next to Yuuri’s left thigh. It’s so close Yuuri can feel the heat of his hand. If it were a few inches towards the right—

Yuuri shuts his eyes. Maybe this is all a hallucination. Maybe he hit his head on the ice when he attempted that quad flip. Maybe Celestino is right and he should stop practicing without anyone there. Maybe closing his eyes was a mistake because the image of Maybe Actually Victor pinning him to a wall and kissing him with that beautiful mouth plays against the inside of his eyelids and Imaginary Yuuri lets out a little squeak and—

oh no.

The squeak was definitely real.

And there’s a warm hand resting just above his knee.

He opens his eyes.

 

_________________________________________________________

 

When Yuuri’s wine-dark eyes flicker open they’re all pupil. Victor presses down on his urge to shudder.

He’s seen that look on Yuuri’s face before: amidst a flood of fluorescent lights Sochi, Yuuri’s body wrapped around a pole the way Victor wanted it entangled with his own; in the close roaring silence of a converted banquet hall in Hasetsu, hovering above Victor’s sweat-slick body before ducking down for another kiss; in the soft spill of morning sun on the silk sheets of their bed in St. Petersburg as Victor traced a line of kisses down Yuuri’s chest to his navel and Yuuri’s eyes had fluttered open warm and inviting, urging Victor lower and—

“How?”

“Time travel!” Victor chirps, still a little lost in remembering the comforting weight of his Yuuri’s thighs pressed against his shoulders, one on either side of his head.

“…I’m still confused.”

“I’m not sure I understand how it worked either but—”

“Why now?”

 _Because you’re beautiful always, and you told me about Chris, and there was that photographer last week, and then too many candles on my birthday cake, and would the you of then love the me of now,_ Victor thinks, but does not say.

“It was an accident,” Victor laughs and pretends it doesn’t sound forced.

Yuuri blinks. Victor follows the inky spill of his eyelashes as they kiss his cheek.

“Oh,” Yuuri says. A little hollow, resigned but expectant. He won’t meet Victor’s eyes.

Victor wants to hit himself. He wants Yuuri to look at him. And even if this Yuuri is younger, even if he lacks the decades of habits that have married his life with Victor’s, Victor can’t think of him as anyone other than _his_. Which is why he reaches out and places a finger underneath Yuuri’s chin, tilting his head back up. Victor’s thumb fans out, rubbing soft circles over the edge of Yuuri’s jaw which is just a bit sharper than it was—and will be—ten years from now.

"The best one though,” Victor says.

Yuuri flinches, then tilts his head ever so slightly into Victor’s touch.

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I do. Because it’s true.”

“Please,” Yuuri says. And Victor, because he’s known Yuuri, _his_ Yuuri, for almost ten years, knows that Yuuri wants him to keep going, even through all his fear that this can’t possibly be real.

Victor ignores the twinge of pain that protests as he raises himself to his knees. “Do you know what you mean to me?”

Yuuri shakes his head every so slightly, as though afraid too big a movement will dislodge Victor’s hand permanently and shatter the illusion.

“Everything. You’re everything,” Victor says. He can’t stop his gaze from honing in on the pink swell of Yuuri’s lips.

“How?” Yuuri whispers.

“How could you not? After all, I married you.” And Victor leans in, pressing his lips to Yuuri’s soft, fleeting, and not long enough. He leans back and Yuuri, sweet and pliant and warm, chases him and doesn’t stop. He reaches out, cupping Victor’s face with his palm, leaning forward against him until he gives up the bench all together for the floor and straddles Victor and kissing him with soft little whimpers into his open mouth.  

Victor slides his hand under Yuuri’s practice shirt and Yuuri arches into it. He presses against Victor. An inadvertent grind that reminds Victor of those early, maddening days in Hasetsu when Yuuri drew him further and further into his web and seemed to have _absolutely no idea he was doing it_.

“You—you what?” Yuuri says, panting as Victor sucks a mark into the soft skin just under his jaw. He lets out a pleased little noise, one of Victor’s favorites.

“Married you. Of course,” Victor says, far less focused on the words than on getting Yuuri to make that noise again.

Yuuri pulls away. His hands fall from their tentative perch just above Victor’s hips. “What _of course?_ How is that an ‘of course’?”

 _“Yuuri_ ” Victor, whines. He liked it better when they were kissing.

“ _Victor.”_

Victor frowns.

“I met the love of my life! I moved to Japan! Of course I married you!”

“That doesn’t explain anything!”

“It explains everything!” Yuuri’s kiss-bruised lips are so tempting. Victor’s in no condition to give him the condensed version of their courtship. Not when Yuuri's like there, soft and warm, eyes dark and inviting. 

Yuuri runs a hand through his hair, leaning away so his back rests against the bench. “You love me?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re sure?”

“More than anything!”

“But…why?”

“Oh, _Yuuri_ ,” Victor says. He leans forward and cups the back of Yuuri’s head with his hand. “You give me…everything. You make me happy. You make me feel loved.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says, flushed, a small, pleased smile unfurling on his lips. He looks at Victor from under his lashes. “Well. Um. I’m—I’m glad. Maybe…you could tell me some more? About—” Yuuri stumbles over the words a little, as though still struggling to come to terms with what they mean, “—our life? Together?”

“I’d like that,” Victor says.

“I’d like that too,” says a soft, _very familiar_ , voice from the doorway.

“Oh my god,” Yuuri squeaks, and scrambles off Victor’s lap. “It’s—you—you're—”

Victor looks at his younger self, the familiar spill of silver hair gleaming under the locker room lights. “I guess you finally decided to join us.”

**Author's Note:**

> i'm [on tumblr](http://katsukiyuuristrophyhusband.tumblr.com) come talk to me about how yuuri's living his best life.


End file.
